Mass Effect: Amidst Broken Alleys
by Suffering Soldier
Summary: All men must have a code. Samuel Clancy turns his back on the only life he's ever known, blurring the line between friend and foe. But Omega is no place to grow a conscience, and the price for betrayal is paid in blood. AU spanning between ME1 and ME2, featuring primarily OC characters. Rated for violence and strong language throughout.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: After much debate I decided I'd put this story back up after removing it from the site a while ago. While I like this story and have a plan for it, I've got a couple of other large projects already lined up and my concern is that this story won't get the attention it properly deserves. Though it's likely to be updated only once in a great while, I figure its worth putting out there all the same.**

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><p>The harsh orange glow of aged neon signage cast a grim light across Samuel's face as he stood with his hands buried in the pockets of his jacket.<p>

It was uncomfortably chilly—as was common enough in the less populous parts of Omega, though the human seemed to take little notice.

He stood in thoughtful silence outside one of the station's many dives, where the distraught and disenfranchised could drink in solitude with their misery. He, however, was here on business.

Generally, this wasn't the kind of thing that Sam had to do personally anymore; nowadays he had people who handled it for him, but when the Boss told you to take care of something _personally_, you damn well did it.

Still, it had done little to stop him grappling with himself over his instructions. He understood _why _it had to be him, and a part of him believed that perhaps it was better this way, but such self-reassurances could do nothing to cleanse the situation of its inherent wrongness.

Despite this, he entered the establishment, though the way he walked had a certain reluctance about it.

Pausing only a few steps beyond the doorway, he took in the heavy stench of smoke and alcohol that permeated the faux wood of the tables and bar counter. One lonesome soul sat at the latter atop a well-worn barstool, his shoulders slackened and back turned to the door. The batarian had been sitting with his elbows propped on the bar to brace his lowered head with both palms, but he'd slowly sat up when he had heard Samuel enter.

"I figured he'd send you." The seated alien said quietly without turning, his voice heavy with resignation.

"Yeah," the human replied flatly, though his face bore a small frown.

In the confines of the barroom, only a little more than a meter and a half separated the two. Sam shot a look to the salarian bartender who was idly polishing glasses in the far corner of the room and regarding the pair with increasing suspicion.

The raven-haired human faltered slightly and suddenly tasted blood, making him realize he'd been biting his lower lip since uttering the lone word. Darmaun was as noble a soul as any in this wretched hellhole, and the reminder sent a rare wave of hesitation through his mind.

"If…" the batarian cocked his head slightly at the desperate edge to Sam's voice, "If you wanted to run,"

Darmaun sighed. "I'm tired of running."

Craning his head so he could meet his friend's eye, he offered the younger man a sad smile. "I always knew Omega would kill me someday. In the end, I'm just glad it's you pulling the trigger."

Reaching into a pocket, the alien produced a small silver object that shimmered faintly in the light from the lamp that hung overhead.

"The Boss gave me this when I first took over my district." He explained as he set the lighter down on the counter. "You may as well have it."

Samuel nodded sternly, though his stoic expression broke into one of sorrow under the batarian's gaze. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"So am I." Darmaun replied, his voice low and husky.

Turning back to the bar, he lifted the drink in front of him to his lips, his hand trembling slightly. Draining the remainder of the amber liquor it held in a single gulp, he inverted the empty glass in his hand and set it down on the counter.

The batarian drew a deep breath—savoring the last aromas this world had to offer him as he closed his eyes.

Likewise, Sam inhaled sharply and let the air escape steadily through pursed lips as he took a moment to steel himself for what he was about to do.

Then—in one fluid motion—he pulled a Carnifex from inside his jacket, leveled it, and compressed the trigger a single time without flinching.

Darmaun jerked as the tungsten projectile passed through the back of his head and continued out the other side, demolishing a bottle rack and spraying the area behind the counter with a sickly collage of grey matter and liquor.

The gunman silently watched the blood pool on the bar with a frown as steel-colored smoke wafted from the barrel of the pistol that now hung at his waist. Taking a half step forward, he collected the silver pocket lighter from the top of the bar and tucked it within one of the pockets of his coat.

A subtle chill ran down Samuel's neck at the sound of the weapon compacting in his hand as he stowed it in the holster beneath his left arm.

Nine years ago, the human had stumbled onto one of Omega's filthy docks—not a credit to his name and disillusioned with a life that had shown him its blackest face.

Darmaun had taken him off the streets. He'd given him a place to stay, a job, a _purpose_. The batarian hadn't done it as a part of some long term angle, but instead because he found in Sam a kindred spirit—another soul discarded by fate.

And Samuel had repaid that kindness with a _fucking bullet_.

His lips curling into a proper scowl, Sam regarded his surroundings once more. For a moment, he contemplated ordering a drink, and a quick glance at the bartender made the salarian jump.

Ultimately, he decided against it though as his hand found the pack of cigarettes in his jacket. Pulling one of the paper-wrapped cylinders from the container, he placed it between his lips and fumbled momentarily for a light.

His fingers found the cool metal of the lighter he'd deposited in his pocket only a moment ago and he paused before pushing the object into a deeper part of his pocket, opting instead to use his omni-tool.

Stealing a glance at the time as he ignited the cigarette, he took a long drag and let the acrid taste of the synthetic tobacco fill his mouth.

The cleaners would be there in a few minutes and it would be in bad form to stick around. Letting the smoldering cylinder hang between his lips, he buried his hands in his pockets and turned for the door.

Light grey vapor billowing from his nostrils, Samuel stepped back into the familiar stench of decay that permeated Omega's streets.

On the opposite side of the avenue, a dark-clad turian leaned against the side of a parked aircar. Seeing the human emerge from the tavern he pushed himself off the vehicle's glass canopy, a three fingered hand hovering over the submachine gun concealed within the folds of his heavy coat, but the departing lieutenant cast a dismissive wave in the alien's direction as he made his way to his own vehicle.

Detecting his proximity, the glass canopy of the aircar rose and he clambered inside. A few strokes of the haptic interface on the dashboard brought the engine to life and it quickly lifted off, disappearing into the haze of Omega's eternal twilight.

The craft darted through the maze of rusty and crumbling buildings that made up the station's wretched skyline as Samuel set a course back toward the upper districts situated near the main spaceport. Allowing the computer to take over, he slumped back into the pilot's seat.

A part of him wished he could just break down—wished he could cry for Darmaun and himself and for what he'd done, but he just couldn't find the tears. No matter how deeply he searched himself, he couldn't find any sadness, just the weight of anger that sat heavily in his gut. It was the blind, directionless loathing that burned away at the inside of his chest like a smoldering coal, and if it wasn't himself that he hated, then who?

His skycar descended toward the broken labyrinth of buildings and weaved through the corridors of stone and decayed steel. As he approached the commercial district, bright neon signs and advertisements on massive screens began to appear on the sides of the towers until every inch of the station seemed to bask in the glow of an artificial star.

As his anger seemed to fade into the recesses of his mind, he suddenly realized how thoroughly exhausted he was. His eyes ached at the disagreeable light of Omega's clubs and shops and his mind seemed unable to consider anything besides sleep, despite the tempest of emotions that swirled inside of him. Surrendering to the sensation, he sank deeper into his seat and closed his eyes.

The vehicle jostled him awake a short time later with a sharp turn as it entered a bay in one of the towering apartment structures and gently setting down between two other aircars.

Ducking slightly to avoid the craft's rising canopy, he disembarked and headed for the far side of the garage. A set of glass double doors parted as Samuel approached, letting him into a medium sized lobby. Taking an abrupt right toward the elevator, a voice halted him.

"Long night at the office, Clancy?"

Turning on his heel, he glanced at the time on his wrist and gave a sigh as a smile split his fatigued expression. Senia sat on the opposite side of the manager's desk, her lithe blue fingers steepled and the faint violet tattoos on either cheek creased with a faint smile of her own.

"Longer than most," He replied after a long moment, his smile vanishing for a split second before returning, though it didn't quite reach his eyes as it had before. "What about you? It's nearly three-thirty."

"No rest for the wicked, I'm afraid." She announced, indicating a nearby stack of datapads. The asari ran book for the Syndicate and managed the apartment complex—also one of the organization's holdings. It was one of the few respectable jobs for an asari maiden on Omega, and certainly one of the better paying ones. It seemed an awful waste for her to peddle talents in the Terminus, but he was sure she had her reasons. There were of course the odd barroom whisperings that she'd been a favorite consort of the Boss, but Samuel wasn't one to lend the rumors any credence. She was a nice enough girl.

"I hear that," He agreed, stifling a yawn. Taking one last uncertain glance around the otherwise empty lobby, he glanced back to the asari and threw his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the lift. "Well, I'm going to turn in."

"Mhmm." Senia murmured, watching the human until he disappeared into the elevator before turning back to the stack of work on her desk.

Keying in his floor, the light-hearted attitude of Samuel's conversation with the property manager quickly evaporated, and he suddenly felt exhausted again. His entire body seemed doubly heavy and a migraine pushed from behind his eyes.

The lift doors parted and he slogged into the corridor and to the door of his residence, one of only two on the floor. Patting down the various pockets of his jacket and pants, he pulled an antiquated black and silver keycard from one of them and waved it across the door's sensor.

Stepping inside, he entered the small hall that lead into the rest of his home and tossed the keycard on a small table beside the door. Peeling off his jacket as he advanced to where the hall widened to meet the living area, he tossed the jacket to the far side of the L-shaped couch.

Taking a few more steps, he fell forward, allowing the leather cushions and decorative pillows to catch him, too tired to kick off his shoes or take the extra twenty steps to reach his bed. Shifting uncomfortably as the Carnifex under his arm was pushed into his side, he managed to wrench it from its holster without getting up. Reaching with an outstretched hand, he found the end of the coffee table and deposited it there before letting his head fall back into the pillows.

In spite of everything that had happened—despite the remorse and anguish that he knew was sure to find him—Samuel slept like a rock.


	2. Chapter 2

Samuel slowly lifted his head from the pile of decorative pillows and slowly pushed himself up from the couch, eliciting a low, strained groan from the waking human.

"Good morning." A flanged voice greeted dryly, and Sam pulled himself up to peer over the back of the couch.

Argus stood on the other side of the bar counter that separated the apartment's kitchen from the living area, eating from a plastic bowl with a spoon ill-suited for him. The apartment's tenant gave a grunt of acknowledgement as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, one side of his face covered with red lines from the seams of the couch.

"How the hell'd you get in?" The human slurred as he entered the kitchen, his eyes still narrow and rimmed with dark circles.

"Senia lent me a keycard."

"Of course she did."

Samuel set about preparing the small black coffee machine situated on the counter in one of the small kitchen's corners. Pulling a white ceramic mug from one of the cabinets, he set it beside the coffee maker and turned back toward his turian visitor.

Studying the bowl with glassy, half-asleep eyes for a moment, a look of confusion grew on his face. "Are you eating my cereal?"

"No, of course not," Argus managed between spoonfuls.

The human now seemed even more confused than before. "You brought a box of cereal with you?"

The turian quickly shook his head and took a moment to swallow before elaborating. "I leave some things here. Some booze, a change of clothes. Just in case."

Samuel opened his mouth to contest this, but a frown crossed his face and he suddenly whirled around, surveying the kitchen around before turning back to the turian who was looking at him expectantly. The human stood agape for a moment longer before finally clamping his jaw shut and scowling. Grumbling to himself, he turned abruptly and quickly disappeared into the adjoining bathroom, apparently content to deal with his visitor later.

The two had known each other since they'd met some seven and a half years ago while working as muscle for one of the Syndiate's block chiefs. Like Samuel, Argus wasn't from Omega, but instead had been born into a lower tier family on the turian homeworld. As many in his position did, he fell into mercenary work and eventually organized crime after serving his time in the military. Some time ago, he'd cut his ties to Palaven and found himself on Omega, just as many of the galaxy's lost souls did at one time or another.

However, for as long as they'd known each other, they hadn't been 'friends' up until more recently—at least not in the traditional sense. The years had given them a mutual respect for each other to be sure, but they still butted heads more than any two people who worked together rightly should have. In the end it had taken Argus breaking Samuel's arm above the elbow and having the plate on his forehead broken with a bar stool to make them both realize they wouldn't get anywhere fighting each other. However, when the human made district lieutenant he had brought Argus with him as a sergeant—a begrudging sign of respect for turian's abilities. At some point or another they'd learned to tolerate each other.

Sam was the more stubborn of the two and though at times the human was more hard headed than genuinely resolute, it had gotten him farther that a lot of people, Argus included. Like Argus he was utterly candid and on Omega that was the closest thing there was to honesty. Above all else, both staunchly clung to their principles, conflicting and twisted as they may be. They trusted each other, and in the Terminus it was a lot easier to call someone a 'friend' than it was to trust them.

Argus sat quietly finishing his cereal and with a flick of the wrist turned on his omni tool, browsing the morning's reports from the block chiefs while the muffled sound of the shower drummed from the other room. Sometime later, Samuel emerged from the bathroom, bare to the waist and looking much more awake than before.

"Did you stay after the cleaners got there?" He asked bluntly, disappearing momentarily into his bedroom to find a shirt.

The turian nodded to him when he returned with a dark grey T-shirt draped across his shoulder. "Yeah."

There was a silence that lasted a few seconds too long as Argus shifted uncomfortably, tapping at the countertop with the pointed tip of his talon as he searched for something to say.

"I…I'm sorry, Sam."

From where he stood in the kitchen, the lieutenant bristled and turned to fix him with a hard glare.

"People always saying that." He snarled, his lips curling into a scowl. "Everbody's always fucking '_sorry_'. Well fuckin' _don't be_. I'm _fine_."

With that he curtly turned back his back to Argus while he prepared his coffee, flashing the tattoo that ran the length of his back.

Etched in heavy black ink was the image of helmeted human, covered head-to-toe in heavy metal plate armor with a massive blade hefted menacingly over one shoulder—a "_night_", Samuel had called it.

It was a tattoo he'd gotten back when he was a teenager running the streets of Benning with a gang and it was just beginning to show the first signs of fading.

After a long silence, Argus spoke again. "Hyde was there."

"Yeah? What'd that creep want?" Samuel questioned, not sounding at all pleased by the mention of the Boss's operative. The head of the Syndicate had always been something of a mystery. He directed things from the shadows and the young lieutenant had never met anyone who claimed to have seen him in person. Hyde was the Boss's right-hand man and worked as his most direct set of eyes and ears within the organization—if he had made an appearance it was because the big man himself had taken a vested interest in the situation.

"I don't know." The turian replied, watching Sam closely for some hint of a reaction. "He showed up and watched the cleaners haul out the body then left."

Argus had always found humans to be impossibly difficult to read and, try as he might, he earnestly couldn't tell how Samuel was faring after the events of the past few days. The human lifted the steaming mug to his lips and for a moment his scowl disappeared as he took a long drink.

After a long moment he pulled it from his lips and took a few gasping breaths before glancing into the now half-empty cup. "Damn, that's good." He remarked as he lightly swirled the beverage along the sides of the mug. "I haven't had real coffee in fucking _years_."

"I find that hard to believe." Argus commented, glad see to the tone of the conversation lightening.

"I'm serious." The human insisted, holding up the mug as if to display it. "Straight from Earth, none of that synthesized, processed shit."

"Oh? And where'd you find that on Omega?"

His face fixed a thoughtful look, Sam idly swirled his coffee once more. "I don't know- Senia gave it to me, actually. A housewarming gift."

Suddenly looking up, Clancy frowned at the turian. "No- I saw that. Don't raise your damn eyebrows at me."

"I didn't do _anything_." The notably eyebrow-less alien insisted, his tone lofty and heavy with false indignation.

"You fucker," The apartment's tenant chuckled, though his brow furrowed when he checked the time. "Fuck. You're going to make me late." He accused, hurriedly draining the remainder of his drink and moving briskly to the couch.

"You coming to the yard today?" Samuel inquired as he threw on his jacket and stowed his M-6 under his left arm.

The turian shook his head, pushing himself off the counter he'd been leaning on. "Nah, they've got me managing a block in Kima district for a few days."

"Direct from the big guy?"

"Direct as it comes."

Samuel seemed to mull this over for a bit as he stood near the door before looking back to Argus. "What happened to the block chief?"

"Got his head blown off collecting insurance." The visitor reported flatly.

"Stupid bastard."

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><p>Contrary to what the vids would've led people to believe, members of an organization such as the Syndicate didn't spend their waking hours sitting in dimly lit rooms playing cards. Most had day jobs, typically within other, more honest facets of said organization.<p>

The Jaktraa Shipyard was one such facet and was one of the organization's larger holdings. Thanks to its proximity to both the station's commercial district and warehouse sector, it enjoyed a reliable patronage from eezo freighters and passenger vessels alike. The yard itself sat on a large pier, a dozen dry-docks and a handful of machine shops and administrative buildings projecting into the vaccum. Beneath an enormous mass effect field workman dressed in coveralls dotted the yard, carting tools and materials past a maze of sparking arch welders and humming generators. While it lacked the aesthetic appeal of the ship yards of Citadel space, it certainly wasn't any less capable.

Samuel was the site manager, responsible for overseeing the yard's everyday operations and handling all the accounts and paper work. Though as the dry-docks bustled outside his window office, he wished for all the galaxy that he wasn't.

"Plaintively: The sum you are charging for the retrofit is exorbitant."

The district lieutenant massaged the bridge of his nose with his left hand, the right preoccupied with a datapad. He stole a glance at his omnitool and gave a sigh as he realized that the elcor had eaten up forty-five minutes.

"You're updating a sixteen-year-old elcor cargo hauler. The parts are either being fabricated on the station or shipped here all the way from Citadel space, neither one of which is cheap."

"Cajolingly: Perhaps a partial reimbursement is in order for the delay in work."

It occurred to Samuel very suddenly that he didn't know what color elcor bled and that he was suddenly very curious. However he was calmed by the reminder that there was one hell of a surcharge for the cleaners to move large bodies. Additionally, the gargantuan creature could probably reduce him to a faint crimson smear without undue effort. After a moment, he reclined back into his chair, a queer smile crossing his face.

"Offhandedly: I'm sure the enhanced sensory package from Dekuuna you insisted upon has nothing to do with it." He addressed the alien slowly, mimicking its lazy monotone. He got the sense that the elcor wasn't amused.

"Indignantly: Are you mocking me, human?"

"Snidely: No."

The lumbering alien shifted its weight, practically an outburst by elcor standards. "With rising contempt: Perhaps I should take my business elsewhere."

Sam's amused smiled broadened. "Matter-of-factly: Your vessel is in a hundred pieces scattered across the ship yard. Additionally, there is no other facility on Omega capable of accommodating such drastic retrofits."

There was a moment's pause as the creature seemed to consider this.

"Concedingly: I can see that I am wasting my time. Good day."

The massive alien turned and stomped out of Sam's office, its lumbering steps shaking the fixtures on his desk. As he watched the door close he went momentarily limp in his chair, relieved beyond belief to be rid of the elcor. Pulling open one of the lower drawers of his desk he produced a whiskey decanter and set on the desk in front of him, the container a third full of the amber liquor. Rummaging through the drawer for a few moments more, he found a glass send set about preparing himself a drink.

He sat for a while savoring the burn of the glass of malt, followed shortly thereafter by a second. It was a rich, corn bourbon from Earth, a particular favorite of the young lieutenant. Despite its expense, he went to some lengths to always have a bottle or two somewhere and after a few minutes his migraine faded into a sensation of warm fogginess. He briefly considered a third glass, but decided against it knowing he'd be inviting trouble if he got properly loaded on the clock.

As he finished his second drink his omnitool chimed. Setting aside the now empty glass, he answered the call with a quick flick of the wrist. "Hello?"

"Boss, it's Karem," The yard's batarian foreman stated, "Twix just showed up at the gate with a truck. Says he needs to see you."

"I'll be right out."


End file.
